And our little procession of three carriages with white-favour-adorned
horses and drivers, went through all the huge, noisy, indifferent
traffic like a lost china image in the coal-chute of an ironclad. Nobody
made way for us, nobody cared for us; the driver of an omnibus jeered;
for a long time we crawled behind an unamiable dust-cart. The irrelevant
clatter and tumult gave a queer flavour of indecency to this public
coming together of lovers. We seemed to have obtruded ourselves
shamelessly. The crowd that gathered outside the church would have
gathered in the same spirit and with greater alacrity for a street
accident....

At Charing Cross--we were going to Hastings--the experienced eye of the
guard detected the significance of our unusual costume and he secured us
a compartment.

"Well," said I, as the train moved out of the station, "That's all
over!" And I turned to Marion--a little unfamiliar still, in her
unfamiliar clothes--and smiled.

She regarded me gravely, timidly.

"You're not cross?" she asked.

"Cross! Why?"

"At having it all proper."

"My dear Marion!" said I, and by way of answer took and kissed her
white-gloved, leather-scented hand....